Breitmann As A Bummer - Poem by Charles Godfrey Leland

DER SHENERAL SHERMAN holts oop on his coorse, He shtops at de gross-road und reins in his horse. 'Dere's a ford on de rifer dis day we moost dake, Or elshe de grand army in bieces shall preak!' Vhen shoost ash dis vord from his lips had gone bast, There coomed a young orterly gallopin' fast, Who gry mit amazement: 'Herr Shen'ral! Goot Lord! Dat Bummer der Breitmann ish holdin' der ford!'

Der Shen'ral he ootered no hymn und no psalm, But opened his lips und he priefly say 'D--n! Dere moost hafe been viskey on dat side der rifer; To get it dose shaps vould set hell in a shiver; But now dat dey hold it, ride quick to deir aid: Ho, Sickles! move promp'ly, send down a prigade! Dat Dootchman moost vork mighty hard mit his sword If againsd a whole army he holds to de ford.'

Dey spoored on, dey hoory'd on, gallopin' shtraight, But for Breitmann help coomed shoost a liddle too late, For as de Lauwine goes smash mit her pound, So on to de Bummers de repels coom down: Heinrich von Schinkenstein's tead in de road, Dieterich Hinkelbein's flat as a toad; Und Sepperl - Tyroler - shpoke nefer a vord, But shoost 'Mutter Gottes!' und died in de ford.

In dulce jubilo now ve all sings, A-vaifin' de panners like efery dings. De preeze droo de bine-trees ish cooler und salt, Und der Shen'ral is merry venefer ve halt; Loosty und merry he schmells at de preeze, Lustig und heiter he looks droo de drees, Lustig und heiter ash vell he may pe, For Sherman, at last has marched down to the sea.

Dere's a gry from de guart - dere's a clotter und dramp, Vhen dat fery same orterly rides droo de camp Who report on de ford. Dere ish droples and awe In de face of de youf' apout somedings he saw; Und he shpeak me in Fraentsch, like he always do: 'Look! Sagre pleu! Fentre Tieu! - dere ish Breitmann - his spook! He ish goming dis vay! Nom de Garce! can it pe Dat de spooks of de tead men coom down to de sea!'

Boot Itzig of Frankfort he lift oop his nose, Und be-mark dat de shpook hat peen changin' his clothes, For he seemed like an Generalissimus drest In a vlamin' new coat und magnificent vest. Six bistols beschlagen mit silber he vore, Und a cold mounded swordt like a Kaisar he bore, Und ve dinks dat de ghosdt - or votever he pe- Moost hafe proken some panks on his vay to de sea.

But in fain tid we ashk vhere der Breitmann hat peen, Vot he tid; vot he pass droo - or vot he might seen? Vhere he kits his vine horse, or who gafe him dem woons, Und how Brovidence plessed him mit tea-pods und shpoons? For to all of dem queeries he only reblies, 'If you dells me no quesdions, I ashks you no lies!' So 'twas glear dat some derriple mysh'dry moost pe Vhere he kits all dat ploonder he prings to de sea.